


promises we promised to keep

by groove_bunker



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, F/F, all the sads, established relationship breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groove_bunker/pseuds/groove_bunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's gone. <br/>And you're alone. <br/>Again. </p><p>[title from 'Sunday New York Times' by Matt Nathanson]</p>
            </blockquote>





	promises we promised to keep

There’s a note, you notice after a half an hour. It’s propped on the mantle above the fireplace in your office, as if the person who left it knew this would be the first place you’d come. It’s almost a taunt. You know it’s not meant to be.  

It simply reads

‘ _you promised_ ’

in a hand that’s shaky, but familiar. The ink has been smudged by falling teardrops, and black has become shades of blue and purple, spreading out over the heavy card stock of the notepaper. It reminds you of the science experiments you’d conducted with the girls once, coffee filters and different coloured marker pens, working out which colours made up green and pink and orange. They seem like a lifetime ago. They were a lifetime ago.

Your hand automatically goes to your pants pocket, to find your cell phone and hit speed dial one. But that doesn’t seem to be an option anymore. You could call the girls, one of them, both of them. And tell them what? That you’d broken yet another promise and it has been the final straw. Neither of them would be surprised. You’re not surprised.

The next few hours are a blur of wine and sobbing and wandering around the house, wondering if this is all a bad dream. If it is, you would walk into the second office, in the other corner of the house, and find the other woman working there. She’d smile, and ask what the tears were for. You’d explain. There would be laughter, more laughter than the explanation deserved and you would threaten to walk out, to walk away. And then arms would surround your waist and soft lips would find your old skin and everything would be fine. More than fine. This terrible dream could be put behind you.

The doorbell goes around midnight. The last person you expect is standing on the stoop, with a bottle of whiskey and a sombre look on his face. Well, he probably knew. Knows. Whatever, thinking about it is hurting your head but he is her friend too. It stands to reason that if she’d planned to walk away, she might have told him. He doesn’t say a word as you lead him through to the office and he ignores the note, sitting on the coffee table, pride of place, in case you somehow forget. You have to admit that you’re glad he arrived; you never have been much good at being alone. He pours a glass, you drink. It continues for a while until you’re drunk and he’s brave.

“So…”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.”

You’ve always been able to have a conversation like this. He understands you in a way that none of her husbands ever had. He’s more similar to you than he would like to admit, and you wishes you could be like him more than he’ll ever know. More whiskey will be necessary before you can deal with that kind of soul searching though. The bottle’s half empty already and the bottle of wine you finished earlier is lying haphazardly on the floor, red dripping out on to the carpet like blood. You can’t bring yourself to care.

There’s no stain when you wake up in the morning, head pounding, stomach turning. He must have cleaned it up when he tucked you in on the couch. You’ll have to call and thank him later, when you feel like you can open your mouth without vomiting everywhere. It’s been years since you’ve felt this ill, since you’ve felt bad enough that you can’t take care of herself. Not since you were pregnant with the twins. You pull out your until now untouched cell phone, the one you haven’t looked at since yesterday lunch and tears spring fresh from your eyes. Missed calls, texts, emails. You don’t think you can bring yourself to read them because you know what they’re going to say.

‘You promised.’

You had promised. You’d promised a thousand times, and you’d broken every single one of them.  

Nothing looks better in the cold light of day. She’s gone and you’re alone. Again.  


End file.
